Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.
Machines have come, art has fled, and I am far from thinking photography can help us.
Art is either a plagiarist or a revolutionist.
And here in my isolation I can grow stronger. Poetry seems to come of itself, without effort, and I need only let myself dream a little while painting to suggest it.
Life has no meaning unless one lives it with a will, at least to the limit of one's will.
Color which, like music, is a matter of vibrations, reaches what is most general and therefore most indefinable in nature: its inner power.